


Portrait of the Hero as a Young Man

by marginaliana



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Masturbation, Pre-Deathly Hallows, Voyeurism, fest fic, fest: hpvalensmut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-01
Updated: 2007-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was one thing Harry hated about being a portrait, it was that it was boring. Or so he thought…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of the Hero as a Young Man

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by summerborn.

If there was one thing Harry hated about being a portrait, it was that it was boring. He'd thought it would be exciting, getting to pop into all the paintings in the castle, riding dragons and visiting with any number of interesting people. Instead, after a year of it he found that the portraits all told the same stories over and over, and it was awfully hard to enjoy the thrill of clambering onto a dragon's back when the dragon fought in the exact same way every time, flew the same paths every time. He'd imagined endless days of Quidditch, too, except that there was only one painting of the pitch and an increasing number of people who wanted to play (not to mention the fact that the older portraits always wanted to argue about the way the rules had changed since their time).

If there was another thing Harry hated about being a portrait, it was that it was bloody hard to get a moment of privacy. Even when he managed to get away from the other portraits into a painting of an empty field or, even better, a quiet bedroom scene, there was always the chance that someone with the same idea would pop in, not to mention the students walking by outside. All of which conspired to make it so that Harry couldn't use his favorite method of combating boredom – wanking.

For a permanent 20-year old, not being able to wank was becoming a nightmare. Harry wondered if this were the _real_ reason no one had created portraits of living people until now, when Hermione had got it into her head to spy on the Death Eaters that way. Perhaps it wasn't, as she'd said, a matter of drawing the power and the aura from the painted subject, which almost always killed them, which is why it had only even been done on people who were dying anyway. Perhaps it had been because they'd decided it would be best not to have portraits mad with sexual frustration.

Harry, therefore, had begun some investigative wandering through the paintings of Hogwarts, looking for one that would suit his needs. He'd known about many of them already, of course, from the rambling that his other self had done as a student, and it had been a relatively simple matter to figure out where they all were in relation to his home location, a massive portrait of the surviving Order members in the Great Hall. Moving from one to another was far easier when you had a sense of how far in the emptiness you'd have to go, and in which direction. Otherwise you could get lost in the white space between and go mad, Hermione had said, and started listing off the portraits she knew about that had disappeared and never been seen again. But Harry had a keen sense of direction and anyway he was crushingly, achingly bored in addition to needing a wank desperately, so he struck out on his own little adventure.

Rolling his eyes at his own digressive thoughts, he peered out of the latest painting (_Craggy cliffs and a waterfall, how nice,_ he thought sarcastically, shaking the water out of his hair) into the hallway where it was located.

_Looks like I'm outside the Potions classroom,_ he thought. Leaning to one side he could just make out the curve of the hallway continuing past the door of the classroom itself. _Another frame down there, surely._ Pushing past the spray, he shoved out into the whiteness in that direction, counting upwards as he moved so as to keep track of his progress. His one rule was that if he got to 200 and hadn't found a frame by then, he returned back the way he'd come and tried a new direction. So far that hadn't happened. _Bloody fond of portraits, wizards,_ he thought, not for the first time.

At seventy-five Harry emerged into another landscape, an eerily beautiful scene of open moorland with a few hills off in the distance. It was empty. Looking out into the castle, he realized that the painting was hung in what appeared to be a sitting room, one in which the walls were almost entirely covered with bookshelves. There was a large, comfortable-looking chair and a small table, a few light globes, and a very fluffy rug. Everything was decorated in black and green, a green so dark it was practically black anyway.

_Merlin,_ thought Harry with surprise. _This must be Snape's quarters. Can't think of anyone else who'd live down here and go the distance to make it even darker._ He felt himself flush.

Snape had been the star of Harry's erotic dreams for quite a while now, even before they'd both become portraits. The revelation of what had really transpired on the tower that night in Harry's sixth year had caused his opinion of Snape to do a bizarre turn-around. When Hermione had carefully couched the evidence in Snape's favor in terms guaranteed to appeal to Harry's sense of nobility, and then given him that anxious look, as if to say "I just know you're going to be difficult about this," something in Harry had snapped for good. _Fuck Dumbledore,_ he'd thought. _Fuck all of you with your secrets and your manipulations. I'll show you._

Ten minutes later he'd been shaking Snape's hand, looking him square in the eyes, and saying "I understand, Professor. I'd like to thank you again for all your hard work for the cause." And the odd thing was he _had_ understood. Snape had been rather an arsehole to all of them, certainly, but Harry thought that if he'd been as much manipulated by both Dumbledore and Voldemort, he'd probably have been rather an arse, too. Snape hadn't been able to resist using Legilimency then, but Harry hadn't cared; he let Snape see the truth of what he was thinking without protest. After a moment Snape's eyebrows had gone up, but he'd eventually nodded and they'd settled into a tentative truce.

But it wasn't until after the war was over that things had started getting weird in Harry's mind. _Snape wears freedom well,_ he'd found himself thinking at one of the interminable awards ceremonies, his gaze sliding along the flat planes of Snape's pale, angular cheeks, down to where one long-fingered hand toyed with the medal hung around his neck. Snape had looked somehow lighter than before. Harry had thought of Snape picking Harry's weary body up off the ground at the end of the battle and murmuring "Well enough done, Potter," and rather than feeling the vindication he'd expected, he discovered only a profound wish to hear those words again under more sensuous circumstances. He'd flushed, then, and forced himself to look away, but from there the idea had rather spiraled out of control.

But Snape had become frustratingly unreachable in those days, inclining his head to acknowledge Harry's support at the various public hearings and then slipping away as soon as he could. During the portrait sitting he'd made polite conversation with McGonagall and Mr. Weasley but somehow Harry never managed to get close enough to join in. A few times he fancied he saw a flash of a nebulous something in Snape's eyes across the room, but nothing ever came of it since Snape always carefully avoided him. Harry supposed he couldn't blame the man. He wouldn't want to spend much time with the person who'd been the cause, if unintentionally, of so much pain. It was too bad, Harry thought. He wondered whether, if they'd met under other circumstances – himself just Harry, not Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and Snape just Severus, not the greasy Death Eater spy – they might have been friends.

Shaking off a number of erotic thoughts about Snape's tongue, Harry turned away and slid back out into the white space towards the waterfall painting from which he'd come. It wouldn't do to be caught there when Snape returned to his quarters. Although theoretically being a portrait protected one from death or serious harm by virtue of the magic involved, Harry was sure Snape knew any number of ways to get around those limitations.

\-----

After a week, though, Harry found himself drawn back to the painting in Snape's quarters with a mixture of sexual frustration and insatiable curiosity. _If I visit while he's teaching,_ he told himself, _I can have some privacy and maybe learn a little bit more about him, and he'll never need to know._

Harry gathered information, listening to a couple of the sixth- and seventh-years, the only students Snape taught anymore, since he spent most of his time researching and was disinclined to "waste more of his time on dunderheads" as Harry had heard him say once during the painting process. Apparently their Potions classes fell back to back on Thursday afternoons, so it was then that Harry carefully made the return trip, counting the space between each frame and calculating the time he'd have to look around.

When Harry arrived, he ignored the wind blowing across the moor and peered out. Snape's rooms looked much the same as they had on his first visit – dark but comfortable. He scanned the bookshelves across the room and was surprised not to see many Potions texts. _I suppose he keeps those in his office._ Instead there were a lot of titles Harry didn't recognize and a few he did – _Vile Bodies – probably curses, I'd guess – Steppenwolf – some sort of werewolf book perhaps – Turn of the Screw – that _does_ sound nasty – Merchant of Venice – oh! Isn't that a Muggle play? I think Dudders had to read that for school and he whined so much that Aunt Petunia bought him an idiot's guide for it._ A few more familiar plays stood next to it. Harry shook himself. _I suppose it's not so odd to think of Snape reading Muggle literature. He did grow up with a Muggle father after all._

He wondered what it would be like to be with Snape in the evenings – curled up on the sofa together, Snape reading while Harry did broom maintenance. Perhaps Snape would read aloud to him while he worked, that smooth voice rolling over him like a wave. Harry leaned against the edge of the frame and let his eyes drift half-closed, immersing himself in the fantasy.

> After a while, imaginary Harry finds himself distracted by the silky tones of Snape's voice and he puts the broom down in favor of settling on the sofa and sliding one hand teasingly up Snape's leg. Only after he reaches the back of Snape's knees, surprisingly sensitive, does the man react.
> 
> "Impudent whelp," Snape says. "How you can be completely incapable of appreciating any sort of art or literature I don't know." His voice, though, is just the tiniest bit breathy, and Harry revels in the knowledge that it is he who can affect Snape in this way.
> 
> "I appreciate the kind of literature you write with your tongue on my cock," says Harry in a low tone, "the kind of art you make spread out on our sheets, naked and wanton." Snape's breath hitches and he sets down the book, carefully marking his place with a slip of paper first. Then in a whirl of motion he pulls Harry to him, crushing their lips together in a heated kiss.

 

Caught up in his imaginings, Harry let his eyes close completely, sliding one hand beneath his robes to pinch at a nipple. His legs felt a little unsteady so he settled onto one of the hillocks that line the landscape and braced himself against the frame more firmly.

> By now, Harry is sprawled over Snape on the sofa, desperately trying to undo Snape's buttons even as he is being kissed rather senseless. One of Snape's hands is on Harry's arse, pulling him even closer, and the other is braced against the back of the sofa as Harry thrusts against him.
> 
> Finally he breaks the kiss and drags his lips over Harry's cheek and down the line of his neck. "I want to fuck you tonight," he says, the words low as they filter through the silky curtain of Snape's hair and into Harry's ears.
> 
> "Oh, god," says Harry, "yes, please fuck me, ohpleaseohplease." The last part runs together as Snape bites down on his collarbone and he arches helplessly.

 

The thought of Snape biting him was more arousing than Harry had thought, and he moaned as he slid his hand into his trousers. His own hand was familiar, but he hadn't wanked in so long that he could almost pretend it was Snape's hand – the fingers longer and defter and more tapered, the palm strong and smooth instead of calloused.

> Snape has him over the desk now, achingly hard and trying his damnedest to wait patiently. He knows if he doesn't that Snape will only tease him even more and he feels ready to explode already. Then Snape's lean body is pressed up against his own from behind, and Snape's hand is on his cock, stroking slowly. Harry thrusts into it with abandon.
> 
> "Faster," he says, "please, more, Severus!" Snape kisses his shoulder blade and tightens his fist.

 

At the thought of calling Snape Severus and being answered with a kiss, Harry's hand tightened. "Severus," he whispered, and came all over his hand and the inside of his robes.

Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes to the sight of Snape's shocked, wide-eyed face, his dark hair and eyes standing out against the pale sky of the painted moorland.

"Shite!" said Harry, then flushed. Snape's eyes narrowed, then he whirled and stomped away towards the opposite edge of the frame.

"Wait, Snape, I can explain," Harry said desperately, but Snape was gone.

\-----

Two weeks passed before Harry saw Snape again. Well, he saw the real Snape sometimes, in the Great Hall at mealtimes or wandering about the castle scaring the students in his typical style. The edge had gone off him, though, and Harry found himself more attracted than ever. But Snape avoided Harry just as his painted counterpart did.

_I ought to be happy about that,_ Harry thought. _I ought to be embarrassed and relieved that he's not around to make fun of me. But instead I just feel depressed. I've bollixed it up again, haven't I?_

Harry explored the castle's paintings almost constantly, stopping only to catch a few hours sleep in the dark before waking to move on again. He expanded his possible count between paintings to 350 and found even more landscapes that way – apparently someone had decided to put most of the portraits together in the main parts of the castle, probably so they'd have each other to talk to. After a week he decided not to return to the painting of the Order unless he ran out of places to go – surely Snape wouldn't go back there for fear of seeing him. _No,_ Harry thought, _I know Snape. He'll hide._

Finally, up on the seventh floor, a full 347 count beyond the furthest painting he'd previously seen, Harry stumbled into a painting of what was obviously meant to be a study – a warm fireplace, two large sofas, several packed bookshelves, and a desk against one wall. Between the sofas there was a table with tea set out. And there was Snape, knees curled up against himself on one sofa, a book in his hand, looking for all the world like Harry's utmost fantasy. Harry couldn't help himself; he drew in a sharp breath. Snape looked up and his eyebrows descended like thunderclouds.

"Am I ever to have peace from you?" he growled, voice thick with anger. He set the book down and stood. "Must you invade every private place I know until there are none left?" Harry felt his heart sink. He hadn't stopped to consider that perhaps Snape would want to spend time in the portrait overlooking his counterpart's rooms, or that his actions could be seen as an invasion of Snape's privacy. Again.

"Look," he said desperately, "just… just let me explain! I didn't know that was your place, all right? At least, not until I got there. And then, well, I just needed some alone time, you know? It's bloody hard to get a moment alone around here. At least there I could count on not having students walk in."

If Harry hadn't been looking for it, he'd never have noticed, but there it was – Snape's face softened just the tiniest amount.

"I suppose that is the truth."

"You know it is," said Harry, looking Snape in the eyes. Snape looked away. Harry knew that was as good an acknowledgment as he was going to get and took the opportunity to look around, to make sure they weren't going to have to have this conversation in the Divination classroom or something. But as he looked out of the frame, he saw only white.

"Where are we?" he asked. "Behind a tapestry or something?" Even as he said it, though, he knew it wasn't the case. It wasn't just white – it was the same pure white that one saw in the space between paintings.

Snape rolled his eyes and Harry was disturbed to find it sexy. "Have you forgotten the Room of Requirement so easily, then?"

Harry's mouth dropped open. "Wicked! I didn't think it would work for a portrait, though." He looked at the room again, taking in the warmth of the fire, the tea, the plushness of the sofas. "So… this is what you required, then?"

"It is adequate." Harry snorted. "You find it objectionable?" Snape queried, eyes narrowing as one hand tightened along the arm of the sofa where he'd been sitting.

"No," said Harry softly. "It's lovely. It's just… it's just what I was looking for."

Snape made a disbelieving noise.

"No, really," said Harry, then stepped forward, determined, as Snape shook his head. _After all, we have to have this conversation some time. Let him tell me how much he hates me and why, and then at least I have somewhere to start from in changing his mind._ He didn't stop to think about exactly when he'd decided on dedicating himself to that purpose.

"I know," he said slowly, "that you saw me, that you _heard_ me. I wanted to apologize for that."

Snape's face hardened. "You have, then," he said stiffly. "Now you can leave me in peace."

Harry took a step closer. "You misunderstand," he said. "I don't apologize for wanting you, for," he swallowed, "caring about you, but for the way in which you found out about it. I wish I could have told you directly."

Snape scoffed at him. "You care for nothing other than your own amusement." Harry took another step, now coming even with the end of the left-hand sofa.

"You know that isn't true," he said. "I know you can still read me better than anyone. And if you doubt your own abilities then I'll give you permission to go all the way in. I trust you."

"James Potter must have dropped you on your head as a child," Snape said venomously.

Harry was surprised to find that for once the insult to his father didn't sting. Snape was probably more than half right about James Potter's failings. But he was half wrong, too, and anyway James was dead and Harry realized that somewhere along the line his subconscious had decided he was happy enough fighting for the things he actually maybe could have, instead of worrying about the things that were impossible to change. He laughed.

"Possibly. A baby isn't much like a Quaffle. But it doesn't change how I feel."

"And why should I care?"

"I don't know," said Harry honestly, and then, as he put a name to the signs he'd been seeing, "but you do, don't you?" There was a tightness in the other man, like a taut bowstring waiting to be released. "I thought you just hated me but now you won't look in my mind even with a gold-plated invitation and that's got to mean something."

"Perhaps I just don't want to subject myself to the cesspool of your illicit ideas," Snape suggested, his lips thinning. Harry grinned and took another step, now within arm's reach of the other man.

"If that were all it was," he said, "you'd certainly be able to come up with a better insult than that."

For a moment Harry thought Snape would strike him. Then all the fight went out of Snape's face. The dark curtain of his hair obscured his expression as he turned away, staring into the fire.

"Very well," he said, almost spitting the words out. "And what of it, then? It means nothing."

"How can you say that?" Harry cried. "I care for you, you're… not indifferent to me."

Snape laughed bitterly and turned back, the flashing of his black eyes catching Harry by surprise. "And you would settle for that? You, the hero, the golden boy?"

Harry didn't answer as he crossed the last bit of space between them and crushed their lips together just like he had in his fantasy. In the first second he found himself shaking and then, then the world caught fire. Snape's lips were faintly chapped and he smelled of wood smoke from sitting near the hearth. His tongue slipped between Harry's lips and along the line of his teeth, and Harry could do nothing but cling to Snape's shoulders as the sensation overwhelmed him.

Suddenly Snape wrenched himself away.

"No," he said hoarsely. "I cannot."

Harry sucked in a shaky breath but found his voice was steady. "After that even you couldn't possibly suggest that I'd be _settling_ for anything."

Snape laughed, a jagged sound that rent Harry's heart. "No," he said. "I suppose not. But that isn't enough."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't real," Snape said, and Harry looked around, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"None of this is real. You are not the real Harry Potter; I am not the real Severus Snape."

"So?"

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "Think, boy. You're just a representation of Harry Potter as he was when you were painted. You've got his silly ideas, his youthful desires, his habit of acting before he thinks. But while he will change and mature and grow, you never will. And consider how your actions will reflect on him; the Harry Potter out there will have long grown out of his inappropriate feelings for a bitter old man, and he'll be nothing but embarrassed and unhappy to see you acting on them."

Harry shrugged. "That's his problem, innit? If he's… who I want myself to be, then he'll understand."

Snape's face was shuttered and he turned back to the fire. "Perhaps."

"But that doesn't matter," said Harry, stepping close again and setting a careful hand on the nape of Snape's neck. He could feel the man's racing pulse underneath the warm skin "He's not here. I'm here. I'm not going to change and neither are you. Why not make the most of what we've got? We'll both be here for a while." Then another thought occurred to him. "It's not really the Harry out there you're worried about – it's yourself. You think after a year that the Snape out there will be disgusted at what you feel now."

"On the contrary," Snape said quietly. "I think he'll want you more than ever. And that that Harry will be long past this madness you seem determined to indulge."

"So, what, you're looking out for him?" Harry asked scornfully, though part of him was singing at Snape's use of his first name. "Making sure he doesn't know that he had, could still have, a chance at happiness? That's bollocks."

"Yes, I'm looking out for him," said Snape bitterly, suddenly turning and shoving Harry's hand away. "No one else will. It's better that he not know. That way he can't hope, and can't have that hope dashed."

"That's…" Harry spread his hands incredulously. "It's always better to have hope."

"The best I have ever hoped for," said Snape, "is to be left alone. That's enough."

"And what if I could prove otherwise?" asked Harry angrily. "Would that make even a whit of difference? Or are you so bloody-minded that you're determined not to give yourself even the slightest chance at happiness?"

Snape snorted mirthlessly. "Perhaps. If that's what you want to call it. I prefer to think of it as sheer practicality."

"Fine," said Harry. "But I'm sure you know I'm pretty stubborn myself."

\-----

It was a simple matter to catch his counterpart's attention in the hallway and even simpler to arrange for the two of them to meet in one of the more secluded classrooms on the third floor. As he laid out his thoughts there, Harry noticed that his living self was a little taller than he remembered, a little less skeletal-looking, a little more tanned. He was glad for it, but at the same time, he wondered if perhaps more had changed than he was counting on. If so, if Snape were right…

He cut off that train of thought and finished his plea. The other Harry merely stared at him.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You fancy Snape, and Snape fancies you, but he won't do anything about it because he's afraid it'll make life difficult for my Snape." Harry nodded.

"Though I suspect that's half bollocks, really."

The other Harry continued, undeterred. "And you want to know if I, being you but older, still fancy Snape, and if I do, you want me to see if he, being your Snape but older, still fancies me, so that you can prove to your Snape that it's not just a fluke."

Harry nodded again.

"You know," said the other Harry in an almost conversational tone, "if you weren't me I'd never believe any of this. But… you are me. Sort of."

"Enough to be getting on with, anyway," said Harry. He raised an eyebrow. The other Harry laughed.

"I can't believe I didn't notice how many of his mannerisms I'd picked up," he said. Then he sobered. "But yes, I do still fancy him. More than that, really. He sort of stopped avoiding me as much and we did some work together with the N.E.W.T. level Defense classes and, you know." Harry nodded, feeling relieved.

"Excellent," he said. "So will you do it?"

"I don't know," said the other Harry slowly. "It isn't that I don't want to, but… I'm afraid of ruining whatever this is we have already. What if he _has_ gotten over it and mentioning it bollixes everything up?"

Harry swallowed. "Look," he said, "I've got all the time in the world, really. But you… he's going to die someday. D'you want to waste any of that time? You didn't used to be the kind of bloke who liked to wait."

"Fair enough," the other man admitted. "But that's not always a good thing. I'd like to think I've grown up a little bit."

"Does that mean you won't help me?" Harry asked, his heart sinking.

"I didn't say that," said the other Harry, a sly smile spreading over his face. "It just means I'd better talk to him, first, instead of doing something completely daft like having him walk in on me wanking."

Harry groaned.

\-----

A month later, Harry was still waiting to find out if his counterpart had finally made his move. He'd spent most of the month making just enough effort to be seen in public while working out the limitations of the Room of Requirement in private. It turned out that the room could only be used for one purpose at a time, as he vaguely remembered from his days as a student, so when Snape disappeared from the room to do whatever it was he did, Harry experimented with asking the room for various exciting brooms and spaces in which to fly, or for a replica of the Gryffindor dormitory in which to nap (he'd always found the way he had to sleep standing up as a portrait very irritating). When Snape returned, Harry was always quick to return the painting to its original state, settling onto the second sofa to read some of the Muggle classics he'd never quite had time for.

It was a peaceful life, and the ability to argue with Snape about Muggle literature kept him from being too terribly bored. But something, he knew, was missing. Despite Snape's frequent company, the man always held back somehow, and Harry was lonelier than ever. _If Harry doesn't do something soon,_ he thought, _I'll go mad with wanting._

One afternoon as sat on the rug in front of the fire polishing his broomstick (not strictly necessary, but a pleasant meditative activity), he heard voices approaching. Thinking they'd pass by, as they often did, he kept working, only to stagger to his feet in shock when he heard the unmistakable sound of the Room of Requirement's door opening. The strange whiteness in front of the painting faded away to reveal a medium-sized, square room.

_Shite,_ Harry thought frantically, _I need a way to hide!_ Then he jumped as a familiar fabric slithered against his leg and dropped to the floor. Quickly Harry grabbed it up and slid it over his head, relieved as the invisibility cloak hid him from view.

A head poked into the room and Harry almost dropped the cloak in relief. It was only his counterpart. Then Snape entered the room as well and Harry stiffened.

"I thought we'd never get a moment's peace from those bloody imbeciles," said Snape. The human Harry, standing next to him, chuckled.

"They're not _so_ bad. Well, except for Grimstone. He's truly a menace."

Harry wondered which of the many students he'd seen pass by in the last few months was Grimstone. _Probably the one who'd given himself a third arm – I don't think that was deliberate._ Suddenly Harry had the eerie sensation that someone else had entered the painting behind him and he turned. There was no one there. Then a hand materialized out of the air and clamped itself over his mouth.

"You remain incapable of minding your own business, I see," said Snape's voice in his ear. The low breathiness of it sent shivers down Harry's spine and he felt his cock harden. The hood of Snape's cloak pulled back just enough for Harry to see his smirk and loosened his grip on Harry's mouth.

"If this isn't my business I don't know what is," Harry pointed out in a low whisper, "and you're not exactly hiding your eyes either."

"Yes, I just can't keep my eyes off myself," said Snape sarcastically, but there was something in his tone, an indefinable wistfulness, and his eyes strayed over Harry's invisible shoulder into the room beyond.

Harry turned around, pulling his hood tightly around his face, to watch the unfolding scene. Snape had Harry pressed against the door, his arms above his head, while Snape plundered his mouth with long, slow kisses. Harry arched up against the press of Snape's body, obviously seeking more friction, and Snape effortlessly maneuvered Harry's legs apart so that he could slide one of his own between them. He gifted Harry with a gaze full of intense desire.

In the painting, Harry found himself shivering, wishing desperately to have such a gaze directed at him.

"Yes," he murmured, "beautiful."

Behind him, Snape's body stiffened. Then he reached around and covered Harry's mouth again.

"Be quiet," he said gruffly, "or they'll hear you."

"Off!" the other Harry ordered, breaking the kiss and tugging at Snape's robes. Snape chuckled, a rich, deep sound.

"Impatient wretch," he said, but his tone was fond.

Harry took the opportunity to pull Snape's robes up and off over his head, revealing so much pale skin that the painted Harry didn't know quite where to look first. Harry himself didn't seem to know, either; his hands skimmed over Snape's sides down to his hips, along the thin fabric of his trousers, then up again over his chest. Snape allowed himself to be examined for a moment, then pushed Harry down onto a sofa that materialized behind him. As he dropped kisses along the line of Harry's neck, Harry began fumbling with the buttons of his own robes.

In the painting, Snape murmured something. A moment later, the other Snape made a similar-sounding noise and Harry's clothes disappeared. The painted Harry smirked against Snape's hand as he felt Snape pull him closer. Snape was most definitely aroused by the sight.

Apparently the other Snape was, too; he pulled back to admire Harry for a moment, then slid down and pressed his mouth to the inside of Harry's knee. Harry seemed to find that rather pleasant, and he moaned. Snape's mouth moved upwards along Harry's thigh and his hair spilled from where it had been tucked behind his ears and came down in a curtain over Harry's cock. Harry moaned even more loudly at that, his hips canting upwards against the strands.

"Ohgod," he said, hands fisting against the fabric of the sofa, "god, please, Severus, please, please with your mouth, please, come _on_."

Snape looked up. "Brat," he said, and blew a line of air along Harry's twitching prick. "You'll be telling me where to put my cock next, I suppose."

"Ohgod," said Harry again.

Painted Harry realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a puff of air against Snape's hand, which was still firmly pressed against his mouth. He reached down and pressed the heel of his palm against the bulge in his robes, only barely holding back a whimper at the sensation. Then Snape's other hand was there, shoving Harry's away and twisting his arms behind his back with a wrench.

"No," said Snape's voice in his ear. "You wanted to watch, you get to watch. This farce will be over soon enough."

Harry wanted to protest at that, but at the same moment the other Snape's mouth engulfed the other Harry's cock and all the blood rushed from his brain. That Snape, like his own, was more than capable of holding Harry down when he felt like it, and as portrait Harry watched, his counterpart surged fruitlessly against Snape's strong arms as they held his hips down on the sofa.

"Oh yeah," Harry panted, one hand moving to curl in Snape's hair. "Suck me, yeah, god. You love it… god… when… _fuck_… I tell you what to do."

Painted Harry couldn't see Snape's response very well, between the dark veil of Snape's hair and Harry's thrashing legs, but it must have involved some particularly spectacular tongue maneuver, because Harry's stream of babble came dangerously close to a growl.

"Fuck," he grunted, "fuckfuckfuck your _mouth_… god."

Painted Snape seemed to like that as well; his erection was obvious as Harry shamelessly thrust his arse backwards, ignoring the strain on his arms as he did so. Faintly, over the rushing in his ears, Harry could hear Snape's breathing speed up. His eyes were locked on the scene before him – the arched line of Snape's back as he bent over Harry's cock, the way Snape's fingers inched upwards to spread almost tenderly against Harry's stomach.

The other Harry threw his head back against the arm of the sofa.

"God, yeah, loveyou," he said. Snape's fingers twitched and he turned his head slightly, mouth still curved around Harry's cock. Harry came with a shout.

A moment later Snape slowly released Harry's cock and wiped the edges of his mouth against Harry's thigh. Painted Harry's heart twinged at that, even as he waited eagerly for Harry to recover enough to reciprocate. Then Snape levered himself up and looked directly at the painting.

"Now," he said, "was that enough of a show to prove you wrong, Severus? It bloody well ought to be. Because I'd like to get fucked sometime this century."

In the painting behind Harry, the portrait Snape stiffened. All at once he let go and removed both of their cloaks. Harry shivered as Snape's body heat was pulled away.

"Lovely," Snape sneered. "You've got a career on the stage, whoever you are." Harry's mouth dropped open. _So that's what he meant by farce. He thinks that isn't really himself!_

The other Snape snorted and the Harry lying beneath him slid a comforting hand over his shoulder. "I should have known you'd be difficult." He smirked. "When you were seven years old, you used to sneak out of the house and visit the record shop two blocks over and beg the Muggle shopkeeper to play The Beatles for you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the invisibility cloak drop from Snape's abruptly slack fingers. The other Snape continued inexorably and Harry found himself looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Your favorite song was _Do You Want to Know a Secret_. The shopkeeper's name was Nancy and she called you Serious Severus because she thought it was cute how solemn you were. When you were eight her boyfriend broke her arm and after that she disappeared and you never saw her again."

"How – " said Snape. The other Snape rolled his eyes.

"I'm you," he said. "And I intend to spend a good portion of my life fucking Potter and being fucked by him, an idea which I suggest you appropriate for your own. Unless you would like to string this out by requesting further proof."

Snape took in a breath to argue. Harry saw his chance and leaned in, covering Snape's mouth with his own. It was as incredible as he had remembered from their first kiss, Snape's breath hot against his upper lip sending a rush of desire through Harry's body. His erection, which had flagged slightly during the argument, came back in full force, and he rubbed against Snape's thigh, pressing him against the edge of the frame. He tried to convey all his sincerity and desire through the kiss.

After a moment, Snape's hands came up and gripped Harry's hips, pulling him closer. Just as Harry began to think about asking the room for a nice large bed, Snape broke the kiss. He gazed down at Harry, who felt his heart begin to pound even more at the veiled emotion in the look.

"I suppose I never shall be rid of you," Snape said. "It would only be Slytherin of me to take advantage of it."

A huge grin spread across Harry's face as he nodded. Then Snape spun him around and Harry realized that he'd completely forgotten about the other two men in the room. They were watching eagerly, the other Harry's hand dipping under the waistband of Snape's trousers. Harry flushed. Then Snape's voice was in his ear once more.

"So now let us see if you like to show as much as you like to watch."


End file.
